The First Cut Is The Deepest
by movieholic
Summary: But when it comes to be bein' lucky, he's cursed.


**This one-shot is inspired by the Sheryl Crow song "The First Cut Is The Deepest."**

**There is also a borrowed line from Ben Platt's "Grow As We Go."**

**I wrote this in a few hours, and it is un-beta'd.**

**Any mistakes found are my own.**

**I do not own these beautiful characters.**

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Jaime leaped over the side of his best friend's pickup truck before it managed to come to a complete stop. The resulting hard brake kicked up gravel that pelted his jean-clad knees and caused a swirl of clay dust to cake the ankles of his dark brown boots.

"Are you crazy!?" Bronn howled from where he poked his head through the driver-side window. "I could've killed you!"

"Maybe!" Jaime called back over his shoulder as he expertly weaved around the sparse crowd, still dawdling in the parking lot.

"Stupid, more like," Tyrion groused as he carefully stepped down from the passenger side.

"I heard that!"

"You were supposed to!"

The ramshackle building Jaime briskly approached seemed to sway and pulse from the energy contained within its visibly spackled walls. The thundering of boots against wood-paneled flooring was second only to the harmonious combination of guitars, violins, and banjos. If there was a singer, they were drowned out by the enthusiastic hooting and hollering from the dancers as they synchronistically clapped their hands to the lively beat.

He placed firm but gentle hands on broad shoulders and against the smalls of backs as he pushed forward into the throng gathered at the entrance. He could feel the warm press of bodies against his own, and by the time he made it to the bar counter, he was profoundly regretting wearing a navy blazer over a long-sleeved button-up.

He seized an available stool and settled himself on it as he started to remove his blazer, careful to avoid elbowing anyone in the process. He placed the jacket on the leather cushion of the seat next to him, then rolled the sleeves of his white-and-blue checkered shirt up to his elbows, relishing the soft breeze that trickled in from the open doors and over his now exposed forearms.

He leaned forward, attempting to garner the attention of one of the obviously swamped bartenders. By the time a harried woman arrived to take his drink order, Bronn had settled himself behind Jaime's stool, and Tyrion was clambering up into his own seat.

"Careful not to wrinkle the jacket," Jaime offhandedly added as he ordered four whiskeys, neat.

The bartender had only just managed to set one tumbler down on the counter before Jaime snatched it up and downed it in a greedy gulp. The other two arrived a short moment later, and Jaime passed them to his companions with an undisguised expression of loss. They carefully sipped theirs as they watched him throw back the fourth.

Bronn, with blue eyes wide in a mixture of amusement and sympathy, smacked his wet lips and rocked back onto the heels of his boots. "The cunt's still wallowing in self-pity, I see."

"He hasn't written a word in weeks." Tyrion mournfully stared at Jaime's stubbled profile.

"Christ, that bad, eh? I thought all the best songs were about heartbreak anyway."

"No, my friend, it seems they're all about love."

"I'll drink to that."

The two men clinked their glasses together with feigned cheeriness before sipping at their respective drinks. Jaime ignored their chatter as he undid the button of his left breast pocket, and pulled out a soft, partially crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. He plucked a loose cigarette out, stuffed the pack back into his pocket, and placed the filter to his lips. It stuck to his whiskey-moistened flesh as he canted his head, held out his hand over his shoulder, and motioned toward Bronn with a waggle of his fingers for the man's lighter.

The older man rolled his eyes, before pulling out a silver Zippo, and flicked the spark wheel with practiced ease. Jaime leaned backward, tilting his head to the side to catch the ignited flame, and took a few puffs. When the thin paper took to the heat, he inhaled deeply, held the smoke in the back of his throat, then slowly exhaled through his nostrils. It curled in wisps of white upward, toward his leonine eyes, and he squinted through the haze to catch his brother shaking his head at him in resigned exasperation.

"Those will kill you, you know."

He took another drag, pulled the filter from his lips, and pointed at the tumbler in Tyrion's hand with the cigarette in between his index and pointer finger. "So will that," he rebutted in another cloud of emitted smoke.

The smaller man conceded with a grin, raised his glass, and said: "To your lungs, and my liver."

"Cheers," Jaime replied dryly, lifting his replenished glass before swallowing the amber liquid. He barely suppressed a pleased shudder as it slipped over his tongue and burned down his throat like a warm caress. It pooled in his stomach as he tilted to the side, shoving the hand still clutching his lit cigarette into the pocket of his jeans for cash. He tossed a few twenties atop the counter and stood up.

"Order me another," he said as he took a step away from the bar.

"Don't go breakin' the seal _already_, Lannister."

Jaime waved his hand in the air before placing the tobacco back to his lips. The firefly lights strung up in the bar twinkled overhead and blurred in smudges of bright white as he listed to the side, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other.

A new song had begun; a gently strummed guitar intro before a robust, feminine voice:

"I would have given you all of my heart, but there's someone who's torn it apart-"

He had just made it to the corridor that led to the restrooms when a frantically waving hand caught his attention. He paused, eyes narrowed to slits as the smoke irritated them before he realized the hand belonged to none other than Podrick Payne.

He lifted his own arm up in greeting, straining to catch the words leaving Pod's moving mouth. He raised himself onto the tips of his boots, trying to keep the younger man in sight as the crowd slowly swayed around him. He cupped a hand around his ear and perked a golden brow.

"Are you going on tonight?" Pod was yelling over the heads of strangers.

"No!" He called back, watching as the younger man's face fell.

"Damn shame!"

"Yeah," he said more to himself as he lowered himself back down. He lifted his arm again, as a goodbye, before turning down the corridor and letting himself into the blessedly uncrowded bathroom.

At the sink, Jaime turned the taps and let the water run for a few moments before he cupped some into his right hand and splashed it onto the nape of his neck. The long, sandy-blond strands of hair that crested his broad shoulders plastered to his skin as he rubbed the lukewarm liquid over his sweaty, aching muscles. He could feel the material of his shirt dampen under his sloppy ministrations, but it felt too good for him to care.

The heat of his cigarette startled him as it started to warm up his lips, and he realized he had sucked it down to the filter at last. He took one final drag, then pulled the cigarette from his lips before placing the butt underneath the still-running water. Once he felt comfortable that the extinguished cherry wasn't going to burn the shoddy building to the ground, he threw the butt into the trashcan at his side and exhaled the last of the smoke at his reflection in the streaked mirror.

He looked tired. There were purple smudges underneath his half-hooded eyes, and a copious amount of gray streaking the blond stubble on his square jaw.

He _felt _tired. He lifted a calloused hand to the crow's feet, shadowing the corners of his wary orbs, then let it fall to his side as he realized a lone man at the urinal was openly gaping at him.

"You're, you're that singer-" He stuttered in palpable excitement. "On the T.V.!"

"The radio too," Jaime offered with a small, exhausted smile.

The man hurriedly zipped up, turning so quickly that he stumbled, and made to shake Jaime's hand. He realized what he had just been doing when Jaime eyed the extended appendage with visible disdain. The man flushed in embarrassment.

"It's an honor to meetcha, sir."

"It's always nice to meet a fan," Jaime replied with an exaggerated drawl. He went to reach for a paper towel in the hopes of drying his wet hands but came up empty when he put his hand in the dispenser. He shook them out over the sink, then rubbed them against his jean-clad thighs instead.

"Find me later," Jaime added as he opened the bathroom door. "I'll buy you a drink."

The man's elated beam warmed Jaime as he stepped back into the hall.

As he weaved his way around the now slow dancing throng of men and women decked out in all their Country finest, the melodic voice of the singer pleasantly drifted over him:

"And I'm sure gonna give you a try; If you want, I'll try to love again, try. Baby, I'll try to love again, but I know..."

As the music picked up for the chorus, Jaime felt his heart physically pounding in his suddenly tight chest, and his mouth drying up as he was struck by the familiar chords of the song.

_ She_ had been plucking at them for days, when they were together, cobbling a new melody that she wouldn't let him near with a ten-foot pole until she was ready. But he never got to hear the finished version; she had broken up with him not long after.

A prominent label in the Country music scene had wanted to pick him up for a record deal, but under the unwritten provision that he dropped her as his girlfriend.

_ "She will only hold you back."_

_ "If her music is as good as her looks, then God help the poor woman."_

And he had said no. No, to their preposterous deal.

And she had left him anyway.

Jaime swayed in place as the coupled dancers swayed around him. He turned slowly toward the stage, trying and failing to catch a glimpse of who he _knew_ was sitting up there. He stood on tip-toe, usually towering over most people at six foot two, but high-crowned hats and hair sprayed up-dos blocked his vision.

Jaime pushed forward, barely attempting to be gentle as he worked his way to the slightly raised stage, and when he got there, when he _finally_ saw her, he felt simultaneously overwhelmed and drained. He stared up at her, dumbstruck, as the black Stetson he had jammed on his head earlier that evening teetered dangerously close to falling off as it connected with his back.

"I still want you by my side, just to help me dry the tears that I've cried, but I'm sure gonna give you a try, 'cause if you want I'll try to love again-"

And then her eyes were meeting his through the haze of smoke that permeated the dimly-lit bar; he felt as if a thunderbolt had pierced his very being.

She was singing about them. About him. It was about _him_.

It was _for_ him.

The music swelled as she sang the chorus again, the drums pulsing in his veins like his heartbeat against his ribcage before she finished the song with her last line a choked-up exhale. She stood suddenly, the couples parting to clap as the band's instruments petered out, and then she disappeared off the side of the stage.

A sudden panic gripped him. He was going to lose her in the crowd; lose her all over again. He surged forward, to where Podrick had been standing on the stage's stairs earlier, but the crowd had been swept up by a jauntier instrumental song, and he was struggling against their exuberant movement.

Then a wide, warm hand gripped his shoulder and turned him around fully. He stumbled against the motion, one foot staggered behind the other before he looked up from underneath long lashes and took in the formidable form of his one and only true love:

"Brienne."

Her name was a whisper in the cacophony of sound.

Their eyes drifted toward one another; his a deep blue, her's bright sapphires.

He leaned forward, mouth parted, and eyes half-lidded. She had stepped closer, the dark blue blouse she had unbuttoned brushing against his chest. His words were a puff of warm air against her lips as he asked, "Anyone ever tell you they could write songs about your eyes?"

She lowered her head as she stifled a fond smile.

"Once or twice."

He tilted his head back and took her in.

The music around them settled as Podrick's voice reverberated into the microphone.

"You cut your hair," Jaime said dumbly.

She reached out and gently toyed with the strands of his. "You haven't."

He took a deep, steadying breath. "That song-"

"It was for you."

He swallowed thickly, overcome with emotion, and felt his eyes well up with unbridled tears.

"Brienne," he raggedly exhaled, "I'm so sorry. For everything."

She frowned. "_I _broke up with you."

"I know. I know, but you did it _for_ me." He shook his head. "You stubborn, hard-headed woman."

She chewed on her lower lip, a nervous tick, and lowered her gaze to the floor. "You needed space," she tried, "You needed to grow and branch out on your own. I would have only held you back."

"Who said that growing only happens on your own? You didn't have to _leave_, Brienne."

Her eyes were gleaming now too. She hadn't let go of his shoulders from when she grabbed him, and now she was clutching at them; the fabric of his button-up bunched underneath her large hands and long fingers.

She opened her mouth.

To protest?

To push him away?

_ No_.

Jaime grabbed her forearms, and gathered her large frame in his arms, clutching her tightly against his body. She melted against him, sighing contentedly in his ear with a soft, warm breath that brushed his lobe. He closed his eyes; they were in a bubble of their own as the crowd erupted in applause all around them.

He had just pressed his lips against her neck when he suddenly felt firm, congratulatory pats raining on his back and shoulders. He pulled away from their embrace to see the same happening to an equally perplexed Brienne.

Finally, the sound had rushed back in, and he could hear Podrick calling her back to the stage to accept her recording contract with the local record label, one of notable high repute.

Startled, he pulled his head back and felt a headlong rush of love and happiness.

"You won!"

She met his eyes and held his gaze.

"I know."

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**The End. **

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